IV.I — Joining a Gym

[spiral]

[div class="playbill"]PLAYBILL[/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]SYNOPSIS[/div]
[div class="credits-synopsis"]While visiting sunny Miami, Spiral decides to join a gym that is owned by Jackson.[/div][/div]

[div class="credits"][div class="credits-subheadline"]CAST OF CHARACTERS[/div]
MADS MIKKELSEN...as SPIRAL (THE NARRATOR)
ANYA TAYLOR-JOY..as MADDI  (THE ENTITY)
SAGI KALEV.......as SERGE
TOM HOLLAND......as DALE THE BARISTA
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[div class="spiral-headline"]IV.I[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]JOINING A GYM[/div]

[div class="spiral-quote"]You are captured,
caught in my chains;
as you fancied the world,
with all that in it lives and moves,
lay in your power,
you lie in fetters before me.
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[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— Richard Wagner[/span], [span class="spiral-quote-source"]Das Rheingold[/span]

[div class="spiral-indent"]THE PLANE LANDS AT MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT just after midnight on Wednesday, May 10th. I have no luggage or carry-on bag. My only possessions are a passport and ID, enough cash to cover expenses, and the clothes on my back. My return flight to Moscow departs in thirty six hours.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I purchase a new outfit at the Tommy Hilfiger store. I decide on an all-white look comprised of a long sleeve polo shirt made from Italian cotton, twill cargo shorts, and leather sneakers. I also grab socks, golf gloves, a Panama hat, and a pair of Garrett Leight sunglasses. In the concourse, I pick up a prepaid phone at the Boost Mobile kiosk.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Outside the terminal, the moon is smiling down on me as I get in a taxi. I tell the driver, "El Motel Estrellas. Downtown." He makes the thirty minute drive in fifteen. I am powering up my new flip phone when the car slows to a stop. He warns me to be careful around here this time of night. I give him a big tip and thank him for his advice.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The cab leaves me on the sidewalk holding my shopping bag. The taillights disappear into the night and I start walking—not to the motel's front office, but west down the street. Three black men pass me by, offering drugs. These jackals are in search of prey, but I have no fear of these lowly creatures for I am something far beyond their conception. They must sense it, the wrath in me. It is a big, black hole that will eat them up. Only one of them gets curious about me, and the other two are quick to pull him away.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]A homeless man is sleeping on the front step of an abandoned record store. He's covered in a blanket, with a stack of yellowed newspapers serving as a pillow. Parked near his feet is a rusted-out shopping cart full of aluminum cans and glass bottles. The stench of alcohol, sweat, and urine surrounds him. I choke on it as I get close enough to nudge him with the toe of my shoe. When he doesn't stir, I kick him hard in the gut.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The pain scares him out of sleep. He sits up quickly and recoils, moving away from me until his back presses into the boarded-up door. He's a white man, but his skin is ruddy from a sunburn that is starting to peal on his forehead and cheeks. There is a sickly look about him, with his empty eyes sunk in their sockets, the patchwork of wiry facial hair, and the way his face sags from the bone structure of his skull. He is wearing a military field jacket with a US Army patch on the shoulder.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I stand over him, eclipsing the street lamp, engulfing him in my shadow. He speaks to me with a dry, cracked voice. "Who are you?" To him I must appear as a towering figure encased in black, ringed by a halo of pale yellow light. I offer my outstretched hand to him and answer, "Your salvation."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He takes my hand and rises to his feet with my help. I ask him his name.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Charlie," he says.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"When is the last time you had something to eat?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"A day or so."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"How would you like to earn one thousand dollars, Charlie?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]His eyes widen and his legs start to wobble. He lets out a long breath that smells like his yellow, rotten teeth. "What do I got to do for it?" he asks me.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"A simple thing," I assure him. "I will give you five hundred dollars now. You will go to the motel down the street and rent a room for one week under the name Alexander Bradley. You give me the key and I give you one thousand dollars."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I can see the wheels in his brain turning, imagining all the ways to spend the money. He mutters out, "What's the catch, man? There's gotta be one."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Just one," I say with a smile. "After I give you that money, you buy a bus ticket and get out of town."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He seems confused. "Where should I go?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I don't care. Is it a yes or no, Charlie? I am sure I can find someone else if you aren't interested—"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"No, no," he says quickly. "I'm in."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He does as instructed. I watch him enter the front office of the motel. Five minutes later, he comes out with a smile and the key. "Any problems?" I ask. Charlie shrugs and says, "Nah. He didn't want to rent the room to me at first, but after I shown him the money, he didn't care none. I gave him the name Alexander Bradley like you asked."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I count out ten $100 bills and hand them over. I remind him about the bus and he promises to do as told. I don't really care if he gets on a bus. If he doesn't, this city will eat him alive. Either way, the loose end is tied up.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]As he hurries off into the night, my attention turns elsewhere. I put the key to room 56 in my pocket and start walking the other direction. I pull out my phone and call for a cab. It meets me two miles away in Little Havana. "Take me to the InterContinental Hotel."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]When I arrive, I check in under my name and pay for one night.[/div]

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[div class="spiral-indent"]THE SUN. BURNING AND BOILING. HANGING like a ball of gold overhead, radiating across the cloudless blue sky and down onto the city of Miami, turning every surface it touches into a sizzling hot plate. The light, blinding almost, invades every color and cranks the saturation to eleven, creating a dream world of vibrant hues that pop, from the deepest red to the wildest green. This is Miami by Technicolor.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]
The walk from the motel takes me up Biscayne Boulevard, past a never ending line of puttering cars. I can feel the heat through the bottoms of my shoes, and see the steam rising off the pavement ahead of me. The Panama hat keeps the sweat and sun out of my face, but the bright inferno is everywhere, and just looking out makes my eyes squint behind my sunglasses.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I follow Biscayne for half a mile then cut over to 2nd Street for two more blocks, bringing me to the window front of a fitness center called Dark Horse Gym. I hear Maddi say, "Nice joint," before she side-steps out from behind me. She pushes back the brim of her Panama hat that matches my own and looks up at the sign. "Are you sure you want to do it this way, kiddo? We could just burn the thing to the ground. T'would be a real shame."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"We could"—I reach for the door—"but that would not be as much fun."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The man behind the front counter is tall, built, and tan. His dark hair is styled with product and cut short on the sides to accentuate his square face and chiselled jawline, and his Dark Horse t-shirt is much too small for his muscular frame.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Hello, my friend," he says with an accent I can't quite place. "How may I help you?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I cross my arms on the chest-high counter and lean forward. I catch his name on the badge hanging from his lanyard. "Well, Serge," I say, meeting his eyes. "I'm looking to join a gym. It's time I get into shape."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He looks at me at an angle. "You don't already work out? Could have fooled me, brother."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I do a bit," I explain. "But I want to get cut up like you. You're like Captain America over here. What's your secret?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He laughs off the compliment. "You know, diet and a good program. I mix cardio and training so that..." He continues to rattle off his routine, but my attention has shifted focus to the surroundings. My eyes dart around the desk area, searching for anything that might prove useful. Stacks of applications waiting to be filed, an iPad set up for use as a register and to check in clients, shelves of official Dark Horse merchandise on the back wall—all of it useless to me. I am considering the possibility that I might have to break in after hours when Maddi jumps up on the counter and kicks her legs.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]She whistles at me, and ticks her head over her shoulder. "Check the garbage can, chief."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I bend my head to the left just enough to see past the Serge's Hulkish arm. There, tucked close to the end of the counter, is a waste basket. It's full with discarded Starbucks cups, almost spilling to the floor with them. My curious lips spread into a thin smile.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Geeze," I blurt out at him, interrupting something about pineapples. "You guys must really love coffee. Is caffeine a big part of your workout?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He cranes his neck around to see the dire condition of the trash, then turns back to me with a chuckle. "Not really for me. I mean, I like an iced latte macchiato as much as the next man, but most of those are from my bosses. Both of them hit the Starbucks down the block on the daily, at least."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I give a nod and say, "Your boss—isn't he some kind of wrestler?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"You mean Jackson? Yeah, he was a wrestler for a long time, but now he does MMA."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"I bet it's a pain in the ass," I say while standing up straight. "If he's some famous guy, people probably join here just to meet him."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Actually, no. Our clients are more concerned with getting a good workout at a reasonable rate than worry about who the owners are. Now, I can't say the same for the kid working at Starbucks. He's kind of obsessed with Jackson, but he's harmless."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Maddi is giving me a very Spiral-like smile and saying, "This guy is the perfect combination of nice and stupid. I kind of love him."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"He is precious," I say to her out the corner of my mouth and then smile at Serge. I say to him, "Well, sir, I thank you for your time. I would love to join your gym. Unfortunately, I realized on my walk here that I left my wallet at home." A stack of business cards sits the counter. I take one, flipping it through my gloved fingers, and sliding it in my pocket. "But I will definitely be back tomorrow to sign up for one of those memberships."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Great! We look forward to having you. Have a Dark Horse Day, brother."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]What he said is so absurd that I cannot maintain. At once a great, loud, hacking laugh bursts out of my mouth, right in his face. He pulls his hand back and makes a motion to quiet down. People are starting to look at us, at me. I stare at him, mouth agape, and point a finger right at his chest. "You have a Dark Horse Day, too!"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I laugh all the way to the door and through it. When I get outside, Maddi is already there, and she is laughing along with me. Hers is more of a cackling giggle than the horse laugh vomiting out of me. We stumble to the end of the block before the fit subsides.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Starbucks is only another block down. We're still catching our breath when we get to the door. Before I walk in, I am overcome with worry that we will have to wait in a long line, surrounded by mouthbreathers and disgusting specimens of humanity. How will I control myself, I wonder. Will the temptation of violence be too great? My concern is growing as I step through the door, but it subsides when I see that the lunch crowd has thinned out, and I am filled with cool relief.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]The barista at the register is a woman, mid-twenties. She smiles brightly at me and says, "What can I get you?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Good question." I lean down a bit and smile back. "I heard that a famous wrestler gets his coffee here. He owns the gym right around the block. His name is Jackson."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Another barista—a young man who looks to be barely out of highschool—comes hurrying down the counter from the back. The woman rolls her eyes and tells me, "Talk to him," before walking away. The kid is skinny, with messy blond hair and excited eyes. The name on his badge is Dale.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He says, "This is Mr. Jackson's favorite place to get coffee when he's in town. He comes here all the time. Not today though. He must not be in town. His wife did though, this morning. She's so pretty. She doesn't talk to me as much as Mr. Jackson. I think she finds me annoying."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]His odd behavior interests me. Note the awkward speech patterns. Note the stiff body language. Note the hyperfocused attention to detail. I say, "Pardon me for asking, but are you on the spectrum, Dale?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Yes," he says immediately. "I was diagnosed with autism at age 2. My mom believes it was the MMR vaccine the doctor gave me but I tried telling her there are no peer-reviewed scientific studies that prove any link between vaccines and autism. She doesn't believe me though. I think she wants someone to blame, but I actually don't mind being autistic—Can I get you something?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Actually, now that you mention it..." My eyes lift to the menu and scan for a moment, before looking back down. "What does Jackson usually get?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He rattles it off. "Venti black coffee with a shot of espresso."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]I drum my knuckles on the counter and say, "Give me one of those."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]He rings me up and takes my cash. When he offers change, I direct it to the tip jar. He thanks me, then gets a large cup and a marker. "What's your name, sir?"[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Alexander Bradley," I say smoothly. Most baristas would have simply put Alex, but Dale's attention to detail leads him to write the entire name on the side of the cup. He ends it with an exclamation mark and announces, "Just one moment, Mr. Bradley."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]As he hurries off to make my coffee, I saunter down the glass case full of bakery items and pretend to be looking them over. Maddi waiting for me with her back leaned against the cool glass. She says, "Are you sure he's the one?" then looks over her shoulder at Dale.[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Oh, I am absolutely certain," I tell her. "He's perfect."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]Dale calls out, "Alexander Bradley!" and holds out the cup for me. I take it from him and say, "Thank you very much, young man. I appreciate your effort."
He gives me a nod and enthusiastically says, "Have a good day, sir! We hope to see you again."[/div]
[div class="spiral-indent"]"Oh, you will," I assure him. "I have no doubt."[/div]

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[div class="herald-header"]BODY FOUND IN PARK IS MISSING MAN[/div]
[div class="herald-byline"]May 18, 2017 | By Alex Harris[/div]
[div class="herald-body"]A body discovered late Wednesday evening in a room at the El Motel Estrellas has been identified as missing Miami man Dale Vance, age 19. Vance was reported missing a week ago by his parents when he did not return home after his shift at the Starbucks at First Street and Third Avenue.

Miami Police said a maid found Vance when she entered to clean the room. Sources close to the investigation have reported that Vance's body was mutilated in a ritualistic manner and "put on display". According to motel manager and owner Freddie Renaldo the room was rented on Wednesday, May 10th by a man named Alexander Bradley. He paid cash for seven nights and placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Renaldo described Bradley as appearing homeless, but he was able to pay the $500 needed to cover the room rental. Miami PD stated that Bradley is a person of interest and is being sought for questioning.

Kim Vance, mother of the victim, described her son as "kind, trusting, and innocent" to reporters. She also revealed that her son was Autistic and that he always saw the best in people, a trait that could have been taken advantage of by his killer.[/div]
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